


The Education of Jack Robinson

by Sarahtoo



Series: The Power of the Feminine [1]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 22:36:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5392814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahtoo/pseuds/Sarahtoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Robinson was no blushing virgin. He’d had fewer sexual partners than Phryne, but it wasn’t as if he’d never slept with anyone other than his wife, and he remembered them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Education of Jack Robinson

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Fire_Sign for the beta on this one!

Jack Robinson was no blushing virgin. He’d been contemplating making love with the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher for a while now, and he had the feeling that she thought he was inexperienced. He’d had fewer sexual partners than Phryne, but it wasn’t as if he’d never slept with anyone other than his wife, and he remembered them all. Indeed, he brought lessons from each of them to his plans for Phryne.

**~~ Mabel ~~**

His first sweetheart, fifteen to his sixteen, had been Mabel Jones, a lovely blonde whom he’d known since primary school, but whom he had only truly noticed when her breasts began to fill out the front of her dress in interesting ways. He had wooed her with the sole intention of getting his hands on those breasts, in the single-minded way that sixteen-year-old boys do. He’d taken her to the soda shop, carried her books home from school, and taken her for long walks in the park. It was deep in the park’s wilderness area, where no one could see, that he’d kissed her for the first time, chastely. And on the eve of the day her family moved away, it was in the wilderness, where no one could see, that she’d let him cup and stroke her beautiful breasts. The feel of her pebbled nipples, even through the cotton of her dress, had been enough to see him through many lonely wilderness walks (where no one could see) when she’d gone.

**~~ Glynis ~~**

After Mabel moved, Jack had met Glynis Parkham, whose long brown hair called to him from within the sensible braid she always wore to school. She’d been a very smart girl, and her intelligence had made her lithe figure even more appealing to him. He’d stepped out with Glynis for a full six months, and in that time, she’d let him unbutton her blouse and touch her naked breasts with first his fingers and then his mouth. He’d learned that though she would not allow his hands to travel below her waist, he could press his thigh up against the heat between her legs and she would writhe and push back until she shuddered and cried out. He’d held high hopes that he’d eventually get her to touch him, even through his trousers, until the older brother of one of her friends caught her eye and she left him with barely a goodbye.

**~~ Veronica ~~**

Next had been Veronica Carlisle, whose wild and curly red hair had felt like another pair of hands against his belly and thighs when she took him into her mouth. At eighteen, she had been a year older than Jack; she’d come home with a friend for the Christmas school holiday, and she and Jack had spent two weeks together, blissfully learning everything about the other’s bodies. Although she had not allowed him to penetrate her for fear of pregnancy, she had been game for just about everything else. Her pale skin was freckled all over, partly, he knew, because she loved to be naked out of doors. They’d made use of the wilderness he’d discovered with Mabel, and she’d taught him how to touch and kiss a woman’s sex to bring her to climax. Veronica had loved to climax, and she made sure that she did so at least three times every time she got him alone. She’d also taught him what it felt like to climax with another person; the first time he’d come with his penis inside a woman’s body, it was in her mouth. And he’d learned that though his hand could do a very serviceable job, there was nothing like coming with someone else.

**~~ Deborah ~~**

On the eve of his eighteenth birthday, he’d been sent to the shops for eggs and flour so that his mother could make a cake. He’d come back with them and with an invitation (which he didn’t share with his mother) to come and visit the widowed shopkeeper the next evening. The shopkeeper was a pretty woman in her thirties, who would, for a small fee (according to the schoolboy grapevine), happily deflower young men. His mates had thrown in together to buy him a birthday night with her, and she had informed him of the fact with a smile. Her name had been Deborah Martin, and he’d looked over her bobbed blonde hair, full breasts and hips, and narrow waist and stuttered out his acceptance. She’d met him at her door wearing a dress that buttoned up the front, and she’d led him directly back to her bedroom. She had undressed him almost tenderly, stroking his body with her soft hands before she knelt before him to take him in her mouth. He’d buried his hands in her hair, gritting his teeth to keep from coming as she’d licked and sucked him, then she’d tilted her head to pull each of his balls into her mouth to roll them against her tongue.

She’d known, of course, when he was on the edge; she’d pulled back to stand and begin unbuttoning her dress to show that she wore nothing beneath it. Her body had been beautiful, soft in a way that Veronica, at fifteen years her junior, had not been. He’d watched as she’d pushed the dress off her shoulders to drop it to the floor, then stepped close to grasp her hips and press his body to hers, guiding her to step back against the bed. Holding her eyes, he’d dropped to his knees and pressed his face between her thighs. She’d gasped, surprised, but had widened her stance to let him work. She’d come relatively quickly under his mouth, and when her knees weakened with her climax, she’d fallen backwards to the bed, feet still on the floor, her sex glistening and her breasts heaving.

Jack had stood between her thighs at the edge of the bed, his hand dropping to his cock, his face smeared with her juices, and watched her recover. When she was ready, she’d scooted slightly farther back on the bed and drawn up her knees. He’d climbed up between her thighs and she’d helped him press himself into her body. The feeling of sinking into her hot, wet passage, her muscles clenching and releasing around him astonished Jack. How could anything feel so good? That first time, he’d had no idea how to set a comfortable rhythm, and the actual penetrative portion of the sex had been embarrassingly fast. He was glad he’d given her pleasure beforehand, because he climaxed within five strokes. The second time was better, and he was able to bring her to climax with his fingers as he pumped into her, bending his back to put his mouth on her breasts. And the third time was the best of all. She’d pushed up onto her knees and let him take her from behind, his hands cupping her breasts and her own hand between her thighs stroking herself and him as he pumped into her. He’d come so hard that time, he’d thought his teeth would crack from clenching.

**~~ Rosie ~~**

And then there was Rosie. Sweet Rosie. She had been so young when they met, Jack a freshly minted constable in his smart black uniform, and Rosie the daughter of his senior detective inspector. He’d fallen hard the first time he saw her, with her softly waving brown hair, pale blue-green eyes, and shy smile. He’d been nervous about stepping out with her until her father had shown his approval, but once that hurdle was met, he had gone all in.

They’d begun courting in March, as the summer waned, and he’d known he wanted to spend his life with her after the first month of walks in the park and fish and chips on the foreshore, her kisses sweeter and softer than any he’d had before. He’d asked her to marry him in April, and she’d accepted. In May, he’d moved out of his parents’ house and rented a flat for them to live in. They’d set the date for the end of July—a winter wedding—but they hadn’t waited till then to become intimate. He’d taken her virginity in the bed at his rented flat, his hands trembling with the importance of the moment, her body trembling with pleasure. There had been pain, of course, but she’d said it hadn’t lasted long, and he had brought her to climax with his hands and his mouth before he entered her body, so he knew that most of it had been good for her. He promised her that it would never hurt again, and it hadn’t.

They had been parted by the war after only six months of marriage, but they had made the most of that time. Jack had shown Rosie the joys of the bedroom, and with the understanding that anything that gave them pleasure was all right to try, they had used their imaginations. He remembered their sexual adventures during the nine months they’d been lovers ranging through every version of sweet, tender lovemaking to frenzied fucking in places like the coat closet at her father’s house.

**~~ Amelie ~~**

Jack had gone to war an idealistic young man, ready to aid his country. By the end of 1917, he had surrendered his ideals on the fields of France, killing before he could be killed and watching the men under his command die. He had kept to his marriage vows for the two years he’d been away from home, and he’d sanitized his letters to Rosie to the point that they were so far from his actual experience that they were fictional. Not even the landscape he described for her was real, because all of the trees were broken and burnt from the shelling and the fields of wildflowers had been churned up under the feet of soldiers.

His company had bivouacked outside a small village somewhere in France on Christmas Eve, and he’d been tasked with taking a group into town to see what kind of supplies he could barter for. They’d broken up into pairs to knock on the doors around the town, and Jack found himself the odd man out, so he’d trudged up to the door of the small farmhouse at the edge of town by himself. His knock had brought a woman to the door, and his rough French had made her smile. She’d eyed him up and down, then stepped back to allow him to enter, saying that she did indeed have some winter apples and a couple of chickens that she would trade to him. It wasn’t until she’d closed the door behind him that he understood just what she wanted to trade for.

Jack looked at her; she was in her forties and comely. Her body was slim, her breasts small, and her hair was wavy and brown. He explained that he was married, and she said that she had been too, that her husband had marched away to war and had died there, that it was Christmas and she was so very lonely. She had assured him that if he truly did not want her, she would barter with something else, but she asked only for an hour in which to feel the warmth of another body. Looking into her blue eyes, filled with tears and not so different from his Rosie’s, Jack nodded and reached for her.

He took her to her bed, undressing her carefully and touching her gently, hearing her cries of pleasure as he pressed first his fingers and then his cock into her body. He gave her the hour she’d requested, and when the hour was up and they had both dressed, she packed up the promised supplies. He gave her the money that he’d brought to pay for them; he didn’t want her to feel that she’d become a whore when really, they’d comforted each other. Her name was Amelie—he never learned her last name—but it was Rosie’s name he’d shouted when he came.

**~~ Rosie ~~**

After he’d returned from the war, and it had become clear that he couldn’t be the innocent young man she’d married anymore, they’d at least had sex to bring them together. Jack couldn’t talk about his experiences, but he took solace in the warmth of Rosie’s body and the feel of her arms around him. When he woke in the night, a shout caught in his throat and fear sweat dampening his skin, she would soothe him with caresses, and she accepted whatever form their lovemaking took. Many of those times, he was unable to be the patient and generous lover he used to be, taking her hard and fast, but he did his best to make it up to her later, concentrating solely on her pleasure and bringing her to orgasm as often as he could manage.

Eventually, they realized that sex was the only time that they communicated at all, and they both recognized that it wouldn’t be enough to carry them through the rest of their lives together. Jack couldn’t open up to Rosie, and she couldn’t find a way in. So they’d decided that a trial separation was in order, and she’d moved to her sister’s house. They had met regularly for lunch or tea in the months before Rosie had filed for divorce, but they’d found that their conversations continued to be stilted and they almost always ended up back at their flat, making each other come with a desperation that left both of them empty and sad afterward.

They’d decided, once the divorce had been filed, that they should both try to move on. It would be months before they had their day in court. They’d chosen to file the papers with adultery as the reason for the split, and Rosie had asked Jack to go out and find someone to commit adultery with, because she knew that he would be unable to lie when it came down to it. He’d never told her about that Christmas Eve in France, and he still couldn’t bring himself to speak of those years, so he had found someone else with whom he could cheat on his wife.

**~~ Mary ~~**

It is a perk for some men in law enforcement that they meet many women who are willing to lie down with them for a fee, and some policemen will trade on their badges and future favors to spend time in a woman’s bed. Jack had never done the latter, and although he’d met his share of the former, he’d never taken advantage of them. But now, under orders from his soon-to-be-former wife to go and fuck someone else, he found himself watching the women he came into contact with more closely than he had before. When he met Mary Blask, he thought she might be the right one. She’d come in as a witness to the murder of another prostitute, and she’d taken a shine to Jack. Her body was lush, as different from Rosie’s as it was possible to be. Her breasts were large and heavy, her hips and belly rounded, and she had a bawdy laugh that sometimes even brought the tiniest smile to Jack’s ever-serious mouth.

She also had a kind heart, as she showed when he approached her to engage her services for a night. She’d accepted his money and had taken him round to the flop where she and a few of her friends slept. She’d touched him with care, and after he’d spent himself inside her body, she’d held him as he cried. He’d visited her a few more times, for nothing more than release, though he’d done his best to give her pleasure as well. He liked to imagine that she was happy to see him, and though he hated the fact that because he paid her, he couldn’t really know how she felt, that didn’t stop him from using her body. He didn’t cry again after that first time; instead, he applied himself to forgetting everything that hurt—his crumbled marriage, his emotional wounds of war, the empty vista that was all he could envision for the rest of his life—in the pleasures of the flesh.

**~~ Concetta ~~**

The first time Jack saw Concetta Fabrizzi, he was informing her of the death of her husband. He’d noted her dark eyes and hair, the curves of her body, but in a distant way—she was part of a case and therefore off limits. He’d gotten to know her over the course of the investigation, though, and she fed him every time he showed up, so he started to feel as if they were friends. She didn’t seem particularly saddened by her husband’s death, and as they talked over gnocchi and ravioli, he learned that it had been an arranged marriage and that her husband had not been good to her.

When he’d had to tell her that he’d hit a dead end on her husband’s case, she’d said she understood, and that she hoped he would still come to dinner. And so he had. She was easy company, and their association stayed as friendship for a very long time, even after his divorce was final. It might have stayed that way forever, but he’d gone to Strano’s after he left Miss Fisher’s house at the end of that disastrous case involving the racecar driver. He’d arrived just before closing, his heart breaking at the thought that he had to distance himself from Miss Fisher because he knew he could never have her.

Concetta had seen his pain and welcomed him, as she always did, warmly, with a  plate of pasta and a glass of wine. And then she’d taken him upstairs to her bed to soothe him with her body. She hadn’t asked him for anything, not that night and not afterward. He’d continued to come to dinner at least once a week, and most of those nights, he’d spend a few hours in Concetta’s arms. It was clear to Jack that first night that her husband had never taken the time to learn how to please her, so he applied himself to that. She had such a generous nature, and she deserved generosity in return, so he taught her how to please herself as she learned what pleased him. She had never felt a man’s mouth on her sex, had never controlled the rhythm of lovemaking from astride a man’s hips, had never realized just how much pleasure her body was capable of, and Jack enjoyed being her teacher.

He’d hoped that his physical liaison with Concetta would help him distance his heart from Phryne, but when he and Miss Fisher were called to investigate another murder related to Concetta’s family, seeing the two women together forced him to also see the truth. It wasn’t Concetta his eye was always drawn to. It wasn’t Concetta whose presence made his body thrum with desire. And, he was ashamed to admit, it wasn’t always Concetta he thought of when he took her to bed. He would have to stop seeing Concetta—it wasn’t fair to her to continue their affair when he planned to use every weapon in his arsenal to pursue Phryne Fisher.

Jack had planned to break it off with Concetta once the case was over, but she surprised him by proposing. He had swallowed and promised to consider it, but in the end he knew that he couldn’t accept, much as he wished he could. He didn’t love Concetta; he was in love with Phryne. Admitting that truth to himself seemed to change something inside him, and Concetta could feel it in their last kiss. Her beautiful eyes were sad when she told him that his heart was taken, and he knew that although he would always be welcome for dinner, he would not be welcomed to her bed again.

**~~ Phryne ~~**

Phryne Fisher had entered his life like a hurricane, and over time, she had changed the way he saw himself and his world. She had flirted and bantered with him, at first with a palpable intent to seduce. But when he’d admitted to her that he was married and faithful to his wife, she’d respected that commitment. She hadn’t stopped flirting with him, but she’d done it with less purpose, somehow, allowing him to feel free to reciprocate without the chance that they would follow through.

He had kissed her once, in a panic that she’d draw the attention of a killer, and though it had been done in haste, the phantom taste of her had lingered on his lips for days. And even then, she hadn’t pushed him to do it again, though he’d been able to see that she wanted to. They had nearly come together the night of her cousin’s engagement party, when he’d come straight from the divorce proceedings to be her escort, and if the evening hadn’t gone to hell, he might have ended up in her bed. He had certainly been willing.

In hindsight, though, he was glad they hadn’t fallen into bed that night. It would have been pleasurable, he knew, but she might have been able to dismiss him afterward. Now, they were better friends; they’d come a long way since then, through pain and sorrow, joy and fear. She had flown away to the other side of the world without him, and he’d waited, praying that she’d eventually come back, sending her letters and telegrams to keep himself in her mind. The kiss he’d given her at the airfield before she left had been far more satisfactory than their first, and he’d felt its imprint every day that she was gone.

And now here she was, back in Melbourne, as beautiful and intelligent and vibrant as ever. She’d replied to his letters and telegrams, which had kept him hoping, and she hadn’t stayed in England long, nor stopped over in Europe—she’d come straight home. There’d been a fete at her house to celebrate her return, of course, at which the inestimable Mr Butler and Dorothy Collins had outdone themselves. Jack had arrived late, having been forced to wrap up a case before he could leave the station, every minute that he knew she was back building a fire inside him to see her, touch her, hold her. She’d greeted him at the door of her house with a blinding smile and a stroke of his lapels; she’d stood close enough that he could smell her perfume as she loosened his tie—“You’re among friends, inspector!”—and he’d devoured her with his eyes. He’d leaned close to murmur his wish that he could kiss her again, right now, into the hair above her ear, and he’d wondered whether he’d imagined the tremor that ran through her. She’d looked up at him, her blue eyes wide, and smiled. “Stay a while after?” was all she’d said.

So he’d stayed, floating around the edges of the party, nursing a whiskey as long as he could, and watching her. She’d looked for him, over and over, as she laughed and conversed, flirted and joked. And when the final guests had left and she’d sent her staff off to their beds, she’d taken his hand and led him up the stairs to her boudoir.

He’d been training for this moment since he first kissed Mabel Jones, he thought, and his lips covered Phryne’s with the tender passion he’d shown his first sweetheart. He touched Phryne’s breasts gently and reverently, covering her nipples with his mouth as he had done for Glynis Parkham and pressing his thigh to the flesh between her legs with a gentle pressure that made Phryne’s back arch and her body shudder. He undressed her with a skill learned from Veronica Carlisle, and he used his mouth on Phryne, fucking her with his tongue and fingers to send her over again. When he finally pushed his body into hers, he did so from behind, with Phryne starfished on the bed, her hips slightly raised, the way that Deborah Martin had shown him brought considerable pleasure to both lovers. Lying with her afterward, arms and legs entwined, he kissed her gently, with the compassion he’d given Amelie, the passion he’d found with Mary, and the comfort he’d had with Concetta. And with every stroke of his hands and every beat of his heart, he gave Phryne all the love he’d felt for Rosie, tempered by years and experience and reshaped—as she had reshaped him—to fit Phryne alone.


End file.
